Obsession
by storylover18
Summary: Dr. John Watson wakes up ill one morning but it is not the 24 hour flu he thinks it was. Soon he lands in hospital, quickly deteriorating and Sherlock must work to find out what has happened to his blogger before it is too late. Case!fic mixed with sick!fic. No slash. Rated K for the ramblings of a psychotic woman - probably could get away with a K rating but just to be safe.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Sherlock**_**. **

**Hello, everyone, from London, England! Being in Sherlock and John's hometown has inspired me … okay, not entirely true (for this story, at least). I've had bits of this written for a long time; I've just decided to finally put them together to make a **_**Sherlock**_** story. More at the end of the prologue … **

Holding my breath I slowly sit up. Moving the covers off my legs I let my feet find the floor. With one smooth movement I push myself off the mattress, pausing to see if he has woken up. He snores loudly, my cue to move across the bedroom and into the bathroom.

I don't dare turn on the light but I kneel down and open the bottom drawer. I pull out a flashlight – I'm prepared for this – and remove what I desire. I load the needle from a small bottle of liquid, the biohazard symbol taking a florescent glow from the flashlight, before carefully replacing it. I place the needle carefully on the counter before finding a cotton swab and rubbing it in a tin of gel. Taking the swab and the needle in my hand, I switch off the flashlight, waiting patiently while my eyes adjust well enough to the darkness.

The bedroom isn't as bad as the bathroom – moonlight is streaming through the windows – and I tip-toe to his side of my bed. I set the needle on the bedside table and slowly lift the blankets. I rub a small area of his leg right below his boxer shorts hem with the swab before reaching precariously for the needle.

The metal tip slides smoothly under his skin. For a second time that night I hold my breath but he doesn't so much as flinch. Good; the contents of the tin have done their job well. I push down on the syringe, watching the liquid leave the safety of the tube and enter his body. Pulling the needle out after every last drop is gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. The hardest part is done. Now all I have to do is go to sleep and wait for morning.

**Yes. So. **

**I know this is odd and psychotic sounding (it's supposed to) but don't freak out yet. I also know that there is no reference to Sherlock or John in here but that, too, will come. For the first time ever, I am attempting a case!fic in addition to a sick!fic so bear with me as I sort it all out. I have a plan but my plans tend to go haywire during the writing process.**

**Also, **_**please**_** keep bugging me about this because I really do want to finish it and I have the time to do so! **

**Cheers =) **


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hey everyone! Thank you, as always, for your support and encouragement on the story and I've actually managed to write the next chapter within a few days! I hope you enjoy it.**

****NOTE: THIS CHAPTER RATING IS AT LEAST A K+, IF NOT A BIT MORE. NOTHING EXPLICIT BUT SEX IS TALKED ABOUT/IMPLIED********

"Sherlock?" John called, gathering his keys and wallet. "Sherlock?"

The detective was nowhere to be seen and John walked down the hallway, peering into Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock," John said again with a sigh. The detective had taped himself to a chair in the middle of his room, his mouth gagged.

"I don't know what you're doing and I don't care," John said. "But I'm heading out."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow in expectation although he couldn't say anything. Just from looking at John, Sherlock knew he was going out on a date and had plans on spending the night with whatever this one's name was.

"Yes, alright," John muttered, his ears turning red. "Don't wait up."

John turned and left the flat but as he was descending the stairs, he heard Sherlock call,

"Don't get her pregnant, John! There will be _no_ infants, toddlers, youth, or adolescents at Baker Street."

John rolled his eyes, wondering how Sherlock had managed to escape his gag so quickly.

* * *

"Shall we head out?" John asked Jenn, the candle between them flickering gently. Jenn smiled softly and nodded. John stood up and helped her into her coat, left a £5 note on the table, and escorted his date outside.

"Walk or taxi?" he asked her, zipping up his own coat.

"Walk," Jenn said. "It's a lovely evening."

John smiled, taking her delicate hand in his.

"It is. Shall we walk across Westminster Bridge?"

Again, Jenn nodded and they set off.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Jenn murmured once they had reached the South bank of the Thames and were looking at Parliament all lit up.

"It is," John answered, glancing at Jenn. "Just like you."

Jenn's smile grew and the faintest trace of a blush crept up her cheeks. John smiled, thinking it was adorable, and pulled her close for a gentle kiss. The moment would have been perfect if it hadn't been for John's mobile vibrating and he sighed as they pulled away.

"Sorry," he said. "Ignore that."

Jenn smiled, leaning closer for an encore kiss when the mobile vibrated again.

"You'd better check it," she said. "It could be important."

"I guarantee you it's not," John said, pulling out his mobile.

[received 20:34] _Call immediately. SH. _

[received 20:35] _Immediately means now, John. SH. _

John sighed.

"Can I have a minute?" he asked Jenn, who nodded.

"Of course. I'm just going to duck into the ladies' room."

She pointed to a public toilet a bit down the path and John nodded, dialling Sherlock's number.

"Oh, John, good. I'm glad you called - "

"_What_ is so important?" John demanded. "You're ruining the atmosphere."

"You were kissing, that's hardly an atmosphere."

"Not the point, Sherlock. I am on a date and you do not need to be texting me over trivial things."

"How do you know it's trivial?"

"It's you at home and me on a date. It's always trivial when those are the circumstances."

"On the contrary, it's always _important _in this situation. You never answered me as you were leaving so I need to be sure you know that I will not tolerate a child at Baker Street, John. I've never had to tell you this but you seem quite interested in his woman."

John rolled his eyes.

"Are you serious? I'm not going to get her pregnant, Sherlock."

"Have you got protection?"

"We're not even at home, Sherlock."

"But you're going home with her."

"It's really none of your business."

"It is so. You're going to ruin your life if a baby is a product of tonight's festivities."

John saw Jenn coming back towards him.

"I will say this once and for all, Sherlock, so listen closely. I am not going to get her pregnant; for all I know, we may not even …" John's voice trailed off as Jenn came within hearing distance.

"Have sex? Honestly, John, you're a doctor. You shouldn't be ashamed to say the word sex."

"I'm not," John said into his phone. "I promise everything will be fine."

"You have no way of knowing that."

"Good-bye, Sherlock."

John ended the call before Sherlock could say anything else.

"Everything alright?" Jenn asked and John smiled, turning his mobile off.

"Yes, everything's fine. Do you fancy a spot of tea?"

Jenn's smile returned.

"At home, maybe … it's a bit cozier, don't you think?"

"Absolutely." John said, offering his arm for her. She looped hers through his and they set off walking again.

* * *

John and Jenn were cuddled in bed later that evening.

"Are you alright?" Jenn glanced up at John.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," John said, stifling a yawn but it escaped anyway.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm just tired." John said, snuggling down a bit more, pulling Jenn closer. "It's been a long day."

Jenn smiled.

"And a busy night ... why don't you close your eyes?"

"Are you going to sleep?"

"Yes," Jenn said. "You're not the only one who's tired."

John kissed Jenn's forehead, reaching for the lamp and switching it off.

"Sweet dreams," he murmured, already dozing off in the dark bedroom.

"Always," Jenn whispered back.

**I know this is a bit different from what I normally write – both the bits about sex and the fluffy, OC romance – but it was important for the story. Hope it didn't disappoint! **

**Reviews are always welcome and appreciated =) **


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hi everyone! Thanks are due, as always, to you for your support and encouragement. I'm glad you're all enjoying the story and I hope to have more up soon! But for now, enjoy =) **

John squinted when he woke up, noting immediately that something was wrong. Something deep inside of him and after a moment, he gave a violent cough and then groaned. Jenn glanced over, bleary eyed.

"What's wrong?" she mumbled, still half asleep.

"Nothing," John said roughly. "Sorry I woke you, go back to sleep."

Jenn sat up a bit.

"You're voice is hoarse," she said. "Coming down with a cold?"

John swallowed, his throat protesting the action.

"Don't know," he muttered, trying vainly to clear his throat of the awful tickle. He was unsuccessful and coughed again, prompting Jenn to sit up fully.

"Are you okay?" she asked, looking much more awake, although she was frowning. John closed his eyes, feeling the headache start to build.

"John?"

John opened his eyes again, squinting at her in the bright light that was streaming through the curtains.

"I'm not sure," he said and Jenn frowned, laying a hand on his forehead.

"You're not warm," she said, removing her hand. "Do you maybe want some paracetamol?"

John nodded and watched gratefully as Jenn slid out of bed and returned with the medication and a glass of water. He pushed himself up, feeling achy as he did so, and accepted the cup with shaking hands.

"Thanks," he said, leaning back as soon as she had the glass again. Jenn was still watching him closely; John could feel her glance even with his eyes closed.

"Are you hungry?" she asked but John shook his head – his stomach was far too unsettled for any food.

"What about some tea? You need to get something into your stomach."

John sighed, knowing she was right.

"Tea would be great, thanks," he said. Jenn nodded and returned a few moments later with a steaming cup of tea and a plate of dry toast.

"At least try to eat," she said, handing John the mug. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't want to think about it," John answered with a tired sigh. Still, he took the plate and gingerly bit into the toast. Under Jenn's watchful eye, he ate about half of it and managed the mug of tea.

"That wasn't so bad," she said cheerfully. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No," John said, wishing he hadn't eaten the toast. "I think I'm just going to head home."

"No."

John was surprised by Jenn's adamant response.

"I mean," she said quickly and in a much gentler tone. "No, please, stay. No one wants to take the tube when they're sick, or even a cab. It's no trouble, I promise you."

"But don't you have to work?" John asked but quickly added, "Not that I expect you to take care of me or anything but I'd feel weird being in your flat without you."

"No, no," Jenn said. "It's fine. Close your eyes, go back to sleep. I'm going to take a shower."

John, while still not sure if this was the right decision, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

When John woke again, his head felt like it was about to explode.

"Jenn?" he called weakly, shielding his eyes, and Jenn hurried in not twenty seconds later. She saw his brow wrinkled in pain.

"Headache?" she asked, going to the curtains and closing them. John removed the hand from his eyes.

"Yes," he whispered, his throat too sore to talk at normal volume. Jenn again frowned and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling John's forehead again.

"You've got a fever now," she said softly and John nodded miserably. Jenn reached over to the bedside table and pulled a thermometer from the drawer.

"Why is that in there?" John mumbled as she shook it and checked to make sure the mercury was accurate – it was an old glass thermometer rather than a new digital one.

"What?" she asked, glancing at him. "Oh, that's where it ended up when I moved in and I never bothered putting it in the bathroom. I haven't had to use it."

She didn't give John the chance to respond, sliding the thermometer in his mouth. Jenn left him there as she poured a cup of orange juice for him. She set the tumbler on the bedside table before taking the thermometer out of his mouth.

"What's it say?"

"Nothing good," she said with a sigh. "Thirty-eight point seven. Here," she said, handing John the glass after putting the thermometer down. "You need to stay hydrated."

John pushed himself up slightly and took the cup, sipping at it. The acidity in the orange juice stung but at the same time, it felt wonderful as the cold liquid slid down his parched throat.

"Thanks," John said as Jenn took the glass back, coughing slightly. "I don't know where this came from," he continued. "I felt fine yesterday. Maybe it was something in the food last night … do you feel alright?"

"Yes," Jenn answered quickly. "I feel fine; there was nothing wrong with the food."

She smiled at John.

"You're a doctor," she added. "You know better than anyone that these things can come with no warning."

John sighed.

"I know," he conceded. "But this really came out of nowhere. Normally I can feel when I'm coming down with something."

"I'm sorry you feel so ill," Jenn said. "But there's nothing you can do but wait it out, I'm afraid. Can I get you anything else?"

John shook his head. The prospect of food was nauseating and anything else required getting up and he didn't feel the need was urgent enough yet.

"Okay," Jenn said sympathetically. "Call if you need anything."

John nodded, sliding down in the bed again and closing his eyes. It was rather nice, he decided, being looked after by someone other than Sherlock. He wasn't sure about it but maybe it was a woman's touch … which, normally, drove him crazy because he was proof that women weren't the only ones who could be good at taking care of other people. Still, he had to admit, it felt nice to have Jenn watching over him.

* * *

"Your fever is still in the thirty-eight range," Jenn said, putting the thermometer down later that afternoon.

"I can tell," John responded miserably. "I ache and my skin hurts."

Jenn frowned slightly.

"It's too soon for another dose of paracetamol," she said. "What about a compress? Would that help?"

John mumbled something along the lines of 'yes' and Jenn went to her bathroom and returned with the folded facecloth. She gently pressed it to John's forehead and neck before draping it on his forehead and leaving it there.

"Better?" she asked and John nodded.

"Go back to sleep," she said softly, kissing his cheek. "And call if you need anything."

John nodded again, already half asleep.

* * *

John jolted awake when his mobile vibrated. His mobile … where was his mobile? John pushed himself up a bit farther and saw that Jenn had neatly folded his clothes and placed them on a chair in the room. His mobile and wallet were sitting nicely on the dresser next to it. The mobile vibrated again and John knew it had to be Sherlock. He forced himself up – light-headed, yes, but also not an option – and retrieved it before collapsing back in bed.

[received 15:03] Were you planning on coming home or are you already married to her? SH.

[received 15:04] I need your help, John. Now is not the time for your emotions to get in the way. SH.

[received 15:05] John! SH.

[sent 15:06] Don't yell at me. Yes, I'm still at Jenn's flat.

[received 15:06] Successful night? SH.

[sent 15:07] If you count getting the worst case of flu possible success, then yes. Success.

[received 15:08] You're ill? SH.

[sent 15:09] Yes. It's awful. I feel like I should be dead.

[received 15:10] I'm sure it's not that bad. You're being dramatic. SH.

[sent 15:11] I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. I feel ghastly.

[received 15:12] Please tell me you're staying there. SH.

[sent 15:13] What's that supposed to mean?

[received 15:14] It means I have a case and I don't have time to baby you until you feel better. SH.

[sent 15:15] I believe the term is 'look after' or maybe 'help' … but yes, I'm staying here.

[received 15:15] It's babying. Mollycoddling, if you will. SH.

[sent 15:17] No, it's one friend helping out another friend. I don't mollycoddle you when you're ill.

[received 15:19] Yes, you do and I don't like it. I've told you that. SH.

John sighed, rubbing his eyes. The small text size was giving him a headache.

[sent 15:21] I'll talk to you later. I'm going back to sleep.

[received 15:21] Alone, right? SH.

[sent 15:23] Good-bye, Sherlock.

[received 15:24] Should I be worried? You didn't even have a comeback for me. SH.

[sent 15:25] Good night, Sherlock.

John was already asleep by the time the last message came through.

[received 15:27] Feel better, John. Text if you need anything. SH.

**A nice, fluffy chapter =) Reviews are always appreciated! **


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hi, everyone! Such a great response for the last chapter – thank you all, so much! Your reviews were the first thing I read this morning and they made me smile. I hope you enjoy the next chapter as much! **

"Jenn?" John called in a _very _weak voice three mornings later. Jenn hurried in and helped John sit up, placing a bin on his lap before he was sick into it … not that he brought up much more than bile. The vomiting had started two days ago and was consistently occurring every two to three hours.

"Done?" Jenn asked and John swallowed painfully and nodded.

"Thanks," he croaked; there wasn't much left to his voice now, not between the throwing up and the coughing and the sore throat.

Jenn didn't say anything in response but took the bin to the bathroom to clean it out before returning. John had physically fallen back into the bed – he was quite weak now, hence why Jenn had needed to help him sit up and ensure he didn't choke on his own vomit. Jenn returned with the bin and a fresh face cloth. She set the bin down before planting herself on the edge of the bed, gently wiping down John's face and neck, which were gleaning with sweat.

"I think I should go to hospital," John mumbled. This was the fourth time he had suggested it and, like the previous times, Jenn shook her head.

"It's just a bad bout of flu, John. It'll start to clear up soon. You don't want to sit around in an A&E for hours like this, do you?"

John didn't say anything, although he was thinking that, given his appearance, he probably wouldn't have to do much waiting at all.

"Wait a few more hours." Jenn added. "We'll take your temperature now and if the fever hasn't broken by six tonight, we'll go in. Okay?"

John nodded and wordlessly accepted the thermometer under his tongue. He closed his eyes, not bothering to open them when Jenn removed the device. He knew she would look worried at the high reading and he knew just how high it probably was. Instead, he just fell asleep.

* * *

Sherlock was bored.

He had solved his latest case – the one that he had been texting John about when he first found out John was ill – and had nothing to do. No experiments and he'd used up all the fresh fruit, anyways. He couldn't be bothered to do the shopping even though Baker Street's fridge was the definition of _bare. _

Sherlock was also – although he'd never admit it – a bit lonely. John had been gone three days now. Presumably he was still ill. Which meant Sherlock was also the tiniest bit worried.

Okay, maybe he was more than a tiny bit worried.

Especially now that he didn't have anything to do _but_ worry … and this annoyed Sherlock to no end. He knew John was a grown man and could take care of himself with relative ease, not to mention … what was her name? Joan? Jasmine? Whatever her name was was taking care of him. How bad off could he be? There was nothing to be gained for anyone but worry. Even so, Sherlock couldn't help but sense that something was wrong.

By late afternoon, he was convinced John was in some sort of trouble. The doctor would have texted him by now, told Sherlock how he was doing, obviously thinking Sherlock would care. He hadn't answered any of Sherlock's texts or phone calls, either. Tired of flopping around onto various pieces of furniture, Sherlock went to his room and dressed in his customary suit and pulled his coat on, mobile to his ear.

"Mycroft? I need a favour."

* * *

John was slightly jarred from his sleep when the buzzer sounded. He was aware, at least, of Jenn walking to door and opening it before dozing off again.

"May I help you?" Jenn asked the tall man standing in her doorway.

"No," Sherlock said, brushing past her.

"Do I know you?" She asked, eyeing Sherlock as he entered her flat.

"No," Sherlock repeated. "Where's John?"

"Who are you?"

"Didn't John tell you?" Sherlock asked, feigning innocence and an air of offence. "He's my … well, I probably shouldn't tell you. If he didn't tell you, he wouldn't want me to. He's very private about that sort of thing. Where is he?"

Sherlock enjoyed watching the look of horror cross Jenn's face despite the circumstances.

"He's … he's in the bedroom. He's ill."

"I'm aware."

Sherlock trailed down the hallway and found the bedroom with relative ease.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed from the doorway.

At first, John thought he was dreaming, or maybe hallucinating. Why would Sherlock be here?

"John, wake up."

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

John forced his eyes open to see Sherlock standing over him.

"Sherlock?" John mumbled. "What are you doing here?"

"I think the better question is why are _you_ not in hospital?"

"We were going to go in if his temperature didn't drop by six," Jenn said from the doorway. Sherlock checked his watch.

"It's quarter after seven," he said, an eyebrow raised.

"I didn't want to wake him."

Sherlock promptly decided that this woman wasn't worthy of his time so he set to ignoring her.

"Why didn't you text me and tell me you were this ill?" he asked John.

"It's just a bout of flu," John said feebly.

"An awfully bad bout of flu," Sherlock corrected. "Come on, I'm taking you to hospital."

"No." Jenn stepped up next to Sherlock. "He doesn't need to go to hospital; it'll clear up on its own."

"How do you know?" Sherlock challenged. "It could be pneumonia or a bacterial infection. He could need antibiotics and he'll certainly need a drip. He's dehydrated."

"No, he's not. I've made sure he keeps drinking."

"Have you seen the sweat pouring off of him?" Sherlock exclaimed. "Between that and the vomiting, he's getting rid of anything you put in."

Sherlock turned back to John.

"Can you walk?"

"No, he can't." Jenn answered. "He can't even get a bin for himself."

Sherlock ignored Jenn.

"Come on, you can lean on me … or maybe I should just call for an ambulance."

"_No_." Jenn said and even the suggestion had made John open his eyes and shake his head. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, then you have to try and work with me here, John."

John nodded and tried to push himself up, only barely managing. Sherlock pushed back the blankets and helped John swing his feet over the edge of the bed.

"He's going to throw up," Jenn said from the door.

"Shut up." Sherlock said, barely even paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. He glanced at John.

"Alright?"

John nodded and Sherlock helped him to his feet and quickly had one of John's arms around his neck before the doctor could crumple to the ground.

"Find his coat and shoes," he instructed Jenn but she didn't move.

"You shouldn't be taking him to hospital," Jenn said firmly. "He'll be fine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, because you're doing such a wonderful job at taking care of him."

Jenn huffed.

"At least _I_ was doing something."

"But you're not helping when it matters," Sherlock said, noting that John had gone very pale. "John? Do you need to stop for a moment?"

They had slowly been making their way away from the bed and towards the door. John shook his head knowing that if he stopped, it'd just be harder to start.

"Do you just want to go back to bed?" Jenn asked him gently and John semi-glared at her.

"Of course he doesn't," Sherlock spoke up. "He wants to get medical help. Find his shoes."

Jenn still didn't move and Sherlock looked at her.

"Idiot," he said. "Either find his shoes or get out of my way."

Jenn finally went and found John's shoes, tossing them before Sherlock. She did not, however, offer to put them on John's feet. Sherlock was annoyed but he didn't grace Jenn with a response, which was probably a good thing as any sort of response would have been incredibly rude.

"Alright, John," Sherlock said. "We're almost to the sitting room and then we'll take a break on the sofa. Then I'll get your shoes and coat on."

John swallowed and nodded. The sofa seemed like a long ways off still but given that Sherlock was there, John knew he wouldn't fall. Still, by the time he got to the sofa, he was literally soaked with sweat and out of breath. He fell back against the cushions and let Sherlock retrieve his shoes and put them on his feet. His coat was draped around his shoulders and John felt Sherlock lifting him back off the sofa. This time, however, John's shoes made his feet too heavy to lift and John, already exhausted, simply crumpled in Sherlock's arms and blacked out.

"Now look what you've done," Jenn said smugly. Sherlock glared at her.

"What I've done? You're the moron who hasn't brought him to hospital yet. I would have been here sooner if it wasn't for Scotland Yard's stupid chain of custody rule."

"Scotland Yard? Are you a Cop?"

"Consulting Detective." Sherlock grunted as he lifted John's dead weight. "Get the door."

Jenn didn't move.

"Before I drop him and give him a concussion would be nice," Sherlock said. "He really likes you but I'm not sure he'd appreciate hearing how you just stood by and watched me lug him to hospital."

Jenn sighed.

"Fine, but tell him not to bother calling me again."

She opened the door for Sherlock and then closed it as soon as he was through the door. Sherlock was left with John in the empty corridor. He sighed, glancing at John's face.

"This is why I don't date." He muttered, shifting John's weight.

**Yes, many of you have said something odd is going on. How right you are. More to come soon! Reviews, as always, welcome and appreciated. **


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hi, everyone! Thank you, as always, for your support and encouragement. I'm so pleased by the response to this story and it's doing wonders for my case-writing confidence. I hope you enjoy this chapter … some answers (not all, but some) here and more to come soon! Enjoy =) **

"John?" Sherlock asked once they were in a taxi. "John, can you hear me?"

The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder.

"Is he alright? He's not going to hurl in my car, is he?"

"Drive."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the back of the cabbies' head. What a stupid question; of course John wasn't alright. He was passed out over Sherlock's lap. Sherlock gently smacked John's left cheek, only to have John's head roll to the right.

"John, wake up." Sherlock said again, shaking his shoulders and John let out a low groan.

"John, can you hear me?" Sherlock repeated, louder this time.

"Stop yelling," John muttered, barely opening his eyes.

"John, look at me," Sherlock instructed, ignoring John's comment. John fought to focus his eyes on Sherlock.

"We're almost at the hospital," Sherlock said. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."

"I always worry when you tell me not to," John mumbled, his eyes sliding closed again. Sherlock couldn't argue that John had a point; _he _was worried so John, logically, should be half scared to death … which was ironic because, if Sherlock was judging by how his friend looked, John was already half dead.

The cab pulled up to the A&E entrance. Sherlock paid the fare before hauling John out of the cab and helping him into the hospital. Immediately, a nurse was there with a wheelchair, for which Sherlock was grateful. John was heavier than he looked, despite the weight he'd lost in the past three days.

Much like John had suspected, there was no waiting involved in this visit. He was whisked away into an examination cubicle. Sherlock followed and watched as the nurse changed him into a hospital gown and took his vitals.

"A doctor will be with you shortly," she said briskly, pulling the dividing curtain closed behind her. Sherlock stoically watched John's laboured breathing and he could tell when John's breath hitched in his throat that his friend was about to vomit. In one swift movement, Sherlock had John sitting and a bin in his lap.

"You are lucky," Sherlock murmured with a raised eyebrow, although his voice filled with worry. "I wouldn't do this for just anyone."

John was too busy vomiting to respond – not that he had really heard much of that; he was on the edge of consciousness to begin with – and by good luck, the doctor arrived at that moment. He didn't look phased by what was happening. He simply waited till John was done and Sherlock had wiped John's mouth with a towel.

"Dr. Watson," the doctor said, checking the chart. "I'm Dr. Santos. Can you tell me what you're feeling, please?"

John swallowed.

"Headache, nausea, vomiting, stomach cramps, dizziness, weakness, cough, sore throat ..." John's voice trailed off.

"Fever? Aches and pains?" Dr. Santos asked, not looking up from his notes.

"Yes," John mumbled.

"And how long have you been ill?"

"Three days."

Dr. Santos nodded and noted the information.

"What have you been doing in terms of treatment?"

"Paracetamol." John said, wishing he could stop talking.

"What about food and drink?"

"Drinking water, juice …" John paused as he coughed. "Haven't kept much down, though."

Dr. Santos nodded again before looking at Sherlock.

"I'm assuming you brought him in," he said and Sherlock nodded. "Is there anything that you can add?"

"I haven't been taking care of him," Sherlock said. "He was with his … female acquaintance. She was quite insistent on him not coming into hospital so finally I went over there and brought him myself."

"Was there anything unusual about where he was staying? Any strange pets, maybe?"

"No." Sherlock answered. Of course, he hadn't _seen_ them but he had deduced they weren't there. "She was meticulously clean, you could tell from the fresh water glass by John's bed and the arrangements of pillows on her sofa indicate she was obsessively organized."

Dr. Santos raised an eyebrow but nodded.

"Alright," he said. "Dr. Watson, I'm going to perform a quick physical exam before I take some blood samples. We'll start you on a drip to help with the dehydration while we wait for the results."

John nodded as Dr. Santos pulled on a pair of gloves. He glanced at Sherlock.

"Do you mind stepping outside?"

"He can stay," John murmured. "It's fine."

"Alright," Dr. Santos said with a shrug. It didn't bother him any. "Dr. Watson, I'm just going to systematically check you for any bites or strange marks. Let me know if there's any pain or discomfort."

John nodded again. He knew how this worked and closed his eyes as Dr. Santos worked over his neck, chest, back, arms, and legs.

"The good news is that I didn't see anything that should cause alarm," Dr. Santos said, stripping his gloves to make a note. "Now I'll get a blood sample and then we'll make you a bit more comfortable."

Sherlock watched wordlessly as the doctor collected his sample and then started an IV line. He observed with little interest as the clear liquid snaked down the tube and into John's arm.

"Try to get some sleep, Dr. Watson," Dr. Santos said. "And I'll be back shortly."

The doctor left with his sample and Sherlock pulled up a chair next to the bed. John cracked open his eyes, glancing at Sherlock.

"If you have somewhere else to be," he muttered. "Don't feel like you need to stick around here."

"No, I'm fine," Sherlock said immediately. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't choke on your own vomit."

John would have laughed if he didn't feel so awful. The two of them lapsed into a slightly awkward silence, although John fell asleep quickly.

After about an hour, Dr. Santos returned with the file containing the test results.

"And?" Sherlock asked, standing. Dr. Santos did not look happy.

"There's nothing abnormal about his blood work, besides an elevated white count." He said, studying the piece of paper.

"Is there a chance it's just a bad case of flu?"

"Perhaps," Dr. Santos said. "But the symptoms don't match up perfectly and if he's been this ill for three days, that tells me that there may be something else causing it. I'm going to admit him and we'll run further tests."

Sherlock nodded and accepted the clipboard from the admitting clerk when she came. He pulled John's wallet out of his coat – he had grabbed that, plus John's mobile, on their way out – and filled out the relevant information.

"Perfect," the admitting clerk said. "An orderly will be by to take him to his room."

Sherlock didn't say anything in response and watched John sleep until an orderly came and moved him. John didn't really wake up throughout the transfer – he opened his eyes momentarily but that was about it – and soon Sherlock was settled into the visitor's chair of a private room. His fingers were steepled under his chin as he watched John's chest rise and fall.

There was something wrong with this.

John didn't get sick … not like this.

So something had to be causing it.

But what?

The blood tests were clean … or, at least, ruled out the most probable explanations.

Poisoning seemed like a good guess.

But what sort of poison? And how did it get into John?

The woman John was staying with seemed like the obvious candidate but Sherlock wouldn't rule out other possibilities … the people at the restaurant, for instance. They could have easily put something in his food or drink.

But wouldn't that have showed up on the toxicology report? And unless it was meant to kill him and had failed, the poison would have worked its way out of John's system by now. If anything, he should be getting better, not worse.

A drug then, not poison. Obvious.

Again, the toxicology report cleared all the obvious ones – heroin, marijuana, crystal meth – but none of those drugs manifested these symptoms, even with an overdose.

What could it be, _what_? There had to be some sort of clue, something he was missing.

Who … what … why … how … all these questions were swirling around in Sherlock's mind.

Okay, break it down.

Who: the people at the restaurant hadn't known John was coming. They didn't have a reservation that night and had shown up spur of the moment. The woman, then.

What: a drug of some sort.

Why: Sherlock didn't have the foggiest.

How: John had been staying with her since their date that night, plenty of time for her to slip him something. John had been sick for three days, meaning he was ill the morning after their night out so whatever she gave him, it had been that night. Food and drink were obvious methods but they had just come from dinner. John wasn't a big snacker and if their evening had been romantically successful (as Sherlock thought it had been), they wouldn't have had much to eat at her flat. Drink, then. Tea, most likely, but that seemed like a long shot. There wasn't a guarantee of getting the drug into John with tea. He could have refused or not finished the beverage.

_Oh_.

Of course, Sherlock thought, standing and going to the door. He flipped the lock and closed the blinds before going back to John. Completely disregarding John's privacy – the doctor was unconscious at the moment so he couldn't complain – Sherlock lifted the blankets and hiked John's hospital gown up. Sherlock knelt down so his nose was inches away from John's leg … any other time, an awkward sight but Sherlock was looking for something.

He focused on the left leg (John had been on the left side of the bed, making his left leg the one closest to the edge), mid to upper thigh. He pulled out his magnifying glass, noting that John had an annoyingly large number of freckles.

Still, it only took him a moment to find what he was looking for. Once he found it, he pulled out his phone and snapped pictures of the puncture mark.

An injection, of course. That woman – Sherlock would have to learn her name now – had administered some sort of drug via an injection while John was sleeping.

Interesting.

Sherlock covered John up again and tucked the blankets around him before striding out of the room. He found Dr. Santos, who told him the case had been transferred to a Dr. Williams. Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently while Dr. Williams was paged and when he short, bald man finally appeared, Sherlock shared his findings. Dr. Williams had looked surprised but promised to look into it.

"As will I," Sherlock said, putting his mobile back in his coat. "The nurse has my number, text me if anything changes."

With that, Sherlock tightened his scarf, buttoned his coat, and left the hospital.

He had a case to solve.

**The game, as Sherlock likes to say, is on! I hope to update soon but I have a very busy couple of days towards the end of the week so no promises but I'll do my best =) **

**Reviews are always lovely and make me smile! **


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! Thank you, thank you, **_**thank you**_** for such an encouraging batch of reviews/follows/favourites! You guys are the best =) Sorry it's taken so long for a new chapter … I was nervous to write it and I've been so busy it just kept getting pushed to the bottom of the docket. However, finally sat down today, determined to write the chapter. And what a nice, long chapter it is. Enjoy! **

Sherlock returned to the flat where he had picked John up and didn't bother ringing the bell. This woman – Jenn, Sherlock had remembered (he always remembered when it mattered) – would have left the moment that Sherlock took John to hospital. Instead, he simply picked the locks and let himself in, closing the door behind him.

He was in the entryway. The kitchen was to his left, the sitting room straight ahead. Sherlock followed the hallway to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Evidence of John's illness was in rich supply; the unmade bed with John's form clearly imprinted in the soft mattress, the thermometer sitting next to a fresh glass of water, the bin on the floor. The curtains were half-drawn and the room, despite being a sick room for the past three days, was clean.

Sherlock's eyes danced over the dresser and nightstands. Everything was neatly lined up, the perfume bottles ordered tallest to shortest. He walked over to the top drawer and opened it, not surprised to find the clothes colour coordinated and folded exactly the same size. A look in the closet revealed the same pattern.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Sherlock strode into the bathroom and found a neat stack of white wash-cloths on the counter next to the neat array of medicines … mostly various fever and pain controllers. Sherlock picked them each up, studying the labels before popping the lid off each one. Nothing looked wrong with them but he slipped them into his pocket to take to the lab later.

Sherlock went back into the bedroom and saw a diploma hanging perfectly centered above the bed. Sherlock squinted to read the small print. It was from King's College London, specifically the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing and Midwifery.

Jennifer Anne Bodswell.

Well, that saved Sherlock (or Lestrade, rather) the trouble of finding out this woman's full name. The date on the diploma was for 2009 so her credentials would still be valid.

No, this didn't make sense. This woman was a nurse, why wouldn't she take John to hospital when he was that ill?

Wait. She was the one who drugged him in the first place; of course she wouldn't take him in. That was stupid.

Okay, she was a nurse. She had a clear understanding of how the body worked, of the various systems and anatomy. That knowledge would make drugging John quite simple, Sherlock imagined. She'd also know what drugs wouldn't show up on a standard toxicology report.

Sherlock studied the diploma a moment longer before turning on his heel and leaving the flat. He caught a cab to the Waterloo campus of King's College London and strode into the nursing administration office.

"May I help you?" a pleasant looking secretary asked.

"I need to speak to someone about one of your graduates."

The secretary looked taken aback but reached for her phone.

"I can put you in touch with the Alumni - "

"No," Sherlock said impatiently. "I need to speak with professors, someone who would have had experience with this student."

The secretary put down the receiver, looking skeptically at Sherlock.

"I'm afraid I can't release personal information on any of our graduates without proper authorization."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached into his coat, pulling out Lestrade's badge and flashing it.

"I'm with the police," he said. "And I suggest that unless you want to be charged with impeding an investigation, you tell me who I need to be speaking with."

The secretary had paled, although she tried to pull herself together. She showed Sherlock to a conference room before finding the head advisor for the programme. A tall, beautiful woman stepped into the conference room a moment later.

"Claudia Howard," she said, extending her hand. "How may I help you? Cora told me you need information on one of our graduates?"

Sherlock stood and shook her hand – it was easier to follow the formalities than to put up with her being offended and not helping him – and sat down again as Claudia pulled out a chair.

"Yes," he said. "Jennifer Bodswell."

The smile fell from Claudia's face and was replaced with a frown.

"Is she in some sort of trouble?" Claudia asked. "I should have known it was her. Jennifer Bodswell is not one of our graduates. She was expelled from the program in her final year."

"Why?"

"Inappropriate conduct around patients," Claudia answered. "The teaching staff had noticed it in passing during her placements but when a patient filed a formal complaint, we had no choice but to expel her."

"What was she like as a student?"

Claudia stood, motioning for Sherlock to follow.

"We keep all student files that have been flagged for legal reasons," she said. "I can get you a copy of her entire student record."

They went back into the office and Claudia unlocked a filing cabinet while Cora intently avoided eye contact with Sherlock.

"Here you are," Claudia said after a moment at the photocopier. "It's all in there … her marks, teacher's comments, as well as the records from the formal academic hearing. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, thank you."

Sherlock left the office and in the cab on the way back to the hospital, looked through it.

Her transcript was a mix of 100's and various marks in the 70's. The 70's marks, Sherlock noticed, where all in her practical or placement courses. The 100's were all purely classroom based … Pathophysiology I and II, Anatomy I and II, Infectious Disease, Maternity, and so on. There were, however, seven classes that had F's next to them. Failed due to the fact she never finished the program.

Sherlock glanced through some of the professor comments:

_Exemplary in the classroom_ … _Needs to work on social interaction with her patients_ … _impeccable organizational skills in charting_ …

Sherlock paid the fare when the cab stopped outside the hospital and he went straight to the lab, pulling the various drugs from his coat pocket. He ran analysis on them only to find that they were completely fine. They were all what they were supposed to be.

He sighed in frustration.

Think, he needed to think, and he couldn't do that here. He figured John was alright – no one had texted him to tell him otherwise – and Sherlock went back to Baker Street. He peeled a nicotine patch from the wrapper and slapped it against his arm before deciding this required at least one more patch.

The detective flopped onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

_Impeccable organization_ … her flat was an example of the OCD that made her so organized and meticulous. It made sense that that carried into her schoolwork.

_Exemplary in the classroom_ … of course, that was all material that could be memorized. Anyone could be a good nurse on paper.

_Needs to work on social interaction with her patients_ … the social interaction would have been what caused to her grades to drop into the 70's in all her placements. They required working with people in a professional way. It was also what caused her to be expelled from the program.

Wait.

Of course, how could he have been so stupid to overlook that fact?

Sherlock got up so quickly he got dizzy but he ignored the black spots as he pulled his coat on. Another taxi ride later, Sherlock let himself into Jenn's flat again and went to the diploma above her bed. Jenn wasn't a nurse – she had been expelled – and yet she had a diploma hanging in her bedroom. Where did it come from?

Sherlock ripped it off its hook and pulled the back off the frame. It wasn't a diploma at all but rather a cheap copy she had had printed.

It all made sense.

She was a student who was brilliant in the classroom but didn't have the practical skills for the job. When she was expelled from the program, she had lost the only thing that seemed to matter to her, so much so that she had a diploma made with her name on it.

She had drugged John but refused to take him to hospital. She had _made_ him sick so _she_ could take care of him. So she could _prove_ her nursing capabilities.

Sherlock, out of anger and spite for this woman, wanted to crumple the diploma but didn't – evidence and all that. Still, he dropped it onto the bed and left for the hospital again.

* * *

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, coming into his room twenty minutes later. "John, wake up!"

John jumped at Sherlock's loud voice and he cracked his eyes open.

"What do you want?" he mumbled.

"This woman, Jenn, where did you meet her?"

"Go away, Sherlock." John's eyes slid closed again. Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders and shook him awake.

"Answer me! Where did you meet her?"

John's only response was to vomit haphazardly … which, really, should have been no surprise after Sherlock shook him.

"Okay, okay," Sherlock said quickly, grabbing the bin and sitting John up. "I'm sorry."

John coughed violently, bringing up more bile.

"Are you done?" Sherlock asked and John nodded. Sherlock laid John back down before requesting a clean gown for John at the nurses' station. He returned and filled a clean basin with water, dipping a cloth into it before wiping down John's face and neck. He gently removed the gown and put a clean one on, tying it in the back.

John was aware of this going on, although he didn't feel shame or embarrassment.

"Sorry," Sherlock said quietly after disposing of the soiled gown. "But I need you to think, John. Where did you meet Jenn?"

John swallowed.

"Online," he mumbled. _Now _he was embarrassed … Sherlock hadn't known about his online dating. Or so he thought. Sherlock, of course, did know about the online dating but chose not to say anything about it. He didn't really care, to be honest.

"Do you know where online?" Sherlock asked. "Chat room, dating site, Facebook, Twitter, where?"

"Dating site."

"Which one?"

"Match, I think."

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay. Go to sleep, John."

Sherlock left his sick friend and reinforced the message at the nurses' station: if anything happens, text me. He went back to Baker Street, not bothering to take his coat off. He logged onto John's laptop and opened up an internet browser. Match was saved as a favourite and was permanently logged in, saving Sherlock the trouble of deducing a ridiculously easy password. He scrolled through the messages in John's inbox and found Jenn's profile. He clicked on it and read through her page … nothing he didn't already know.

Sherlock, not caring about the legality of his actions, logged out of John's account and hacked Jenn's – again, ridiculously easy password that only took three tries – and he paged through her messages.

She had been on four other dates in the past three months … at least dates set up by Match. Sherlock took down the names and phone numbers before calling each one of them.

Their stories were exactly what Sherlock expected. Went out with Jenn, went to her flat, and spent the night only to wake up ill the next morning. The only difference was that no one came and dragged them off to A&E.

"How long were you ill for?" Sherlock asked the last man – Brent was his name.

"She told me it was five days. I don't really remember much, though."

"Did she give you any sort of medication that you remember?"

"Just paracetamol, I think. I don't know, sorry."

"Thanks for your time."

Sherlock hung up the phone and sighed.

It didn't make sense … she must've given them an antidote to whatever drug she gave them after a certain amount of time. Sherlock cocked his head … the drug. What was it anyways? She had to get it from somewhere which meant there was a known antidote.

Stupid, a voice whispered in Sherlock's mind. The file.

Sherlock sighed. Of course … she had a science background, chemical engineering to be precise. She could have easily made a new strain of flu that was drug resistant. That's why the paracetamol never seemed to be helping. It _didn't_ help. It was just for show, to help whatever unfortunate man she had conned believe she was trying to help him.

Sherlock got up from the sofa and walked back onto the street, passing a fifty quid note to the woman sitting a few feet away before getting a cab to New Scotland Yard.

* * *

"So you're telling me this … maniac … drugs people she brings home so she can nurse them back to health but nothing works until she gives them an antidote to her super bug?"

"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently.

"Okay, no need to be defensive," Lestrade said. "It's just not something I hear every day is all. I'll put a notice out to be on the lookout for her and I'll let you know if we find her."

Sherlock nodded and wordlessly left the office.

"Give my best to John." Lestrade's voice trailed after him. Somehow, Lestrade knew that's where Sherlock was headed. There was nothing he could be doing while they waited so he figured he may as well go make sure John didn't asphyxiate due to incompetent nurses.

**Wow. I know there's a lot in this chapter but it provides the bulk of the explaining for the crime … I hope it makes sense! **

**Reviews are always lovely, thank you! **


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! Hope you're all doing well. Thanks, as always, for the encouragement and I'm sorry this has been a bit longer than anticipated in coming … my muse is acting odd as of late but this morning I just had this huge desire to write so write I did. And here it is! Enjoy it =) **

Sherlock was almost knocked over by the hospital staff running past him. He flattened himself against the wall and waited till they passed him before adjusting his coat and striding on. He hated hospitals; the smell, the staff running around almost knocking you over, all the sick people … it was just gross. The _only_ good things about a hospital were the morgue and the lab.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he rounded the corner and he picked up his pace. The same doctor that had almost run into him was now busy in John's room, leaning over his friend. Sherlock ran the last dozen yards to the doorway.

"What happened?" he exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, Sir," a nurse said. "You'll have to wait outside."

She tried to block him from entering the room but Sherlock pushed through.

"What happened?" he repeated. "John!"

John was deathly pale and Sherlock did not need the annoying buzz from the monitor to tell him that John was not breathing. His chest wasn't moving and he was completely still, apart from the doctor performing CPR.

Sherlock froze.

All around him, doctors and nurses were adding medications to the IV line, someone called for the paddles, there was a charging noise followed by the surge of electricity. John's body jolted in a revolting manner.

Sherlock didn't want to watch this and yet he couldn't take his eyes off John's face, willing there to be a twitch or _something_.

There was nothing.

The doctor called for another charge and sent the surge through John a second time. A few beeps from the monitor before the flat line reappeared.

"Charge again," the doctor barked and the process repeated itself to no avail.

It was at this point that Sherlock left the room and started manically pacing in the hallway.

Okay, John was dead.

Dead.

John.

His blogger … the one person who actually put up with him … possibly the only person in the _world_ Sherlock actually cared about.

Dead.

The word had a finality to it that Sherlock had never understood before now.

Okay … uh … now what?

Sherlock had seen people die before. It was part of living, wasn't it? It was a simple process, really. The heart stopped, the brain didn't have oxygen and shut down and that was it. No more life.

But … _John_.

Sherlock knew that the same process had happened to John – or a variation of it, at least – but it was different. Life hadn't just left John … his personality, his essence, everything that made him John was now gone, too.

It was too much for Sherlock to process. His friend had been fine, absolutely fine before this bitch had gotten hold of him. What was worse … it was all Sherlock's fault. All the other men had been this ill but Jenn had actually made them better. By showing up and dragging John to hospital, Sherlock may as well have signed the death certificate himself. There was no cure for what Jenn had done, not here. She had the only antidote and it was missing along with her.

Sherlock curled his hands into fist, evidence of a resolved drive for finding this woman and making sure she never saw the light of day again … Lestrade would probably prefer Sherlock did this in the legal manner (i.e. a jail cell) but Sherlock was tempted to ensure that she _never_ saw anything but the inside of a casket.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Someone was talking to him and Sherlock drew himself out of his mind palace. He was still in the hospital corridor and Dr. Williams was standing in front of him.

"Mr. Holmes, are you alright?"

"What? Yes, fine. Of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

Dr. Williams frowned slightly.

"Why don't you sit down?" he suggested. "Carol, can you get him some water?" he asked a passing nurse. The nurse glanced at Sherlock and nodded. Sherlock watched her walk away before turning back to Dr. Williams.

"I don't want water; I don't want to sit down. I'm fine."

"I would like to discuss Dr. Watson's treatment with you," Dr. Williams protested. "As his power of attorney, you are now the one making all medical decisions for him."

"Power of attorney?" Sherlock repeated. "What are you talking about? John is dead, he doesn't require anymore treatment."

Dr. Williams looked surprised.

"No, Mr. Holmes," he said. "We were able to revive Dr. Watson. He's now on a ventilator."

Well. That was unexpected.

Sherlock turned away from the doctor and strode into John's room, where a nurse was just finishing cleaning him up. Sure enough, a tube was extending from John's mouth and was taped in place. Sherlock's eyes found John's chest moving up and down rhythmically.

"He was dead." Sherlock murmured.

"He was very close to death." Dr. Williams corrected, coming up behind Sherlock. "But he was lucky."

Sherlock snorted. How was being in hospital on a ventilator _lucky_? He didn't understand.

"Mr. Holmes," Dr. Williams said. "We need to discuss his treatment."

Sherlock's eyes snapped towards Dr. Williams.

"Keep him alive."

Dr. Williams sighed.

"Yes," he said. "But we are quickly running out of options to treat Dr. Watson. If he stands any chance at recovery, he needs an antidote."

"You worry about keeping him alive," Sherlock said. "And I'll worry about getting the antidote."

"But we need to discuss options if – "

"That will do, Doctor." Sherlock said, his eyes back to watching John.

Dr. Williams sighed and nodded, although Sherlock wasn't looking at him.

"Doctor, I have the water you asked for," Carol said from the doorway. Dr. Williams shook his head.

"We won't be needing it," he said, ushering her away, but whispering, "Keep an eye on him."

Carol nodded and glanced back at Sherlock and John.

Once Sherlock was sure they were gone, he sank into the visitor's chair, his eyes never once leaving John's chest.

John was alive.

For now.

Death was still imminent and unlike past cases, Sherlock cared about the possibility of death in this one.

"Where would she go?" Sherlock asked John. He still preferred to talk about his cases and John rarely provided useful commentary anyways. Sure, there were times, but they were rare.

"Expelled from her programme, told she couldn't do what she thought she was born to do."

Yes, that all made sense but it didn't tell him _where_ she was _now_.

"She left the flat in a hurry but she doesn't have any other property listed in her name. Friend's flat?"

No … how many friends could she have? A woman with her history would be incredibly introverted except when she needed to fulfill her fantasy.

"Family?"

None alive … she was an only child and her parents died in an automobile accident when she was sixteen.

Jenn had left her flat suddenly and with purpose. She had somewhere specific to go otherwise she wouldn't have left.

Where, where, _where_?!

Sherlock glanced up at John's monitor, seeing the steady pulsing of his heart rate. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.

John was alive.

So were the other men Jenn had drugged.

She never intended to kill them.

She _wanted_ to keep them alive.

Her fantasies were dependent on keeping them alive, making them better. She drugged them with what was proving to be a lethal strain of influenza and yet she never let them die. She always administered an antidote before they could die.

_The craving for 'the return of the day', which the sick so constantly evince, is generally nothing but the desire for light_

The quote inscribed in the entryway of the nursing building at King's College London flashed to Sherlock's mind. Jenn wanted to be seen as the angel of mercy, the modern lady with the lamp, who eased suffering of her patients and scared away the prospect of death. She wanted to be the one to preserve life. When she was expelled, she lost the ability to be the light Florence Nightingale insisted every nurse was in a sickroom.

Unable to cope, Jenn had made her own way to continue what she was convinced she was born to do.

It all made sense.

Injecting the drug, the nursing process, and administering the antidote at just the right moment to save her patient.

_Where? _

The question was still whispering itself in Sherlock's mind.

Only this time, he had an answer.

Jenn hadn't wanted anything but to prove herself and her nursing abilities. She had no other purpose and now that was being taken away from her for a second time. She knew that once she was caught, she would face a very long jail sentence. Sherlock knew she wouldn't – _couldn't _– accept that.

She would go back to where it all started and there she would end it.

**Just as a side note, it was pointed out to me that chemical engineering is the wrong degree to do genetic manipulation and it's true. I have no idea why I didn't check into that BEFORE but I didn't and it's completely wrong … however, the beauty of writing is that I get to correct myself in future chapters so yes, it's wrong, but an explanation will come =) **

**Reviews are always welcomed and appreciated! Thank you! **


	8. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hi everyone! So sorry for the delays … to say I lost motivation is an understatement. However, I finally got at least enough back for this chapter and I hope to have the final one up soon. Thanks, as always, for the encouragement! **

Sherlock ran out of the hospital and got a cab. While the driver was making entirely idiotic decisions, Sherlock telephoned Lestrade, telling him to get to King's College London, nursing building.

"Did you find her?" Lestrade asked, grabbing his coat and signalling to Donovan.

"No, but she'll be there." Sherlock said, hanging up as the driver pulled up to the curb. He paid the fare before running inside. He ran underneath the carved quotation and ended up at the main office with the push-over secretary.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, frowning.

The office was completely empty but it wasn't closed. Sweaters still hung on the back of chairs, a half consumed cup of coffee on one of the desks, the window open.

He narrowed his eyes, swiftly turning and striding down the hall until he found the one office door that wasn't open.

Claudia Howard, Department Chair.

Sherlock paused outside the door, listening. There were two people in the room … obviously Jenn and Claudia.

Well. This was an unforeseen turn. Sherlock hadn't counted on a hostage situation but it made sense. Jenn was going to kill the woman who authorized the expulsion and was then going to kill herself. Sherlock knew he didn't have much time and Lestrade was slow. He rolled his eyes – did he have to do everything for New Scotland Yard? – and knocked on the door.

The voices from behind the door stopped.

Obviously Jenn wasn't expecting anyone to find her.

The door didn't open and Sherlock knocked again.

Still nothing.

Finally, he tried the knob and when he found it locked, he kicked down the door.

"You!" Jenn exclaimed, a pistol pointed at a bound Claudia. Claudia looked up at Sherlock, her eyes wide with fear. There was a trail of blood trickling down the side of her face.

"Stay there!" Jenn exclaimed, moving to point the gun at Sherlock as he stepped forward.

"Interesting choice, the hostage," Sherlock said smoothly. "Was that planned or a spur of the moment decision?"

"Why shouldn't I kill her?" Jenn asked. "She's the one who made sure I couldn't do what I wanted."

"That wasn't her," Sherlock said. "That was you. Inappropriate relationships with male patients; what kind of nurse are you?"

He was taunting her and he knew it. She was a live bomb, ready to explode at the slightest bit of impact.

"They weren't true," she exclaimed.

"They never are," Sherlock muttered.

"The committee got it wrong." Jenn insisted. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"Right," Sherlock said, glancing around. "So what was your plan? Execution style, bullet between the eyes? Or maybe from behind? Oh, I know, you were going to shoot both of her kneecaps first, watch her suffer a bit, and then kill her? Or were going to hurt her to try and save her?"

For the first time, Jenn was speechless.

Interesting.

She hadn't intended on killing Claudia, it was never part of the plan. This woman didn't have what it takes to kill someone.

"Well?" Sherlock asked. "Which is it? Go on, show what you can do! Or are you a coward? Afraid of a little bit of blood?"

Jenn bit her lip in determination and slowly turned so the gun was aimed at Claudia, her hand shaking now that Sherlock was forcing her to move. In one swift motion, Sherlock was behind her, his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. He wrenched her hand upwards, towards the ceiling, as the shot rang out. Sherlock forced the gun from the woman's hand before twisting her arm backwards. He heard the satisfying snap of her elbow disjointing and she screamed in pain, going limp as Sherlock twisted her arm a bit harder.

Sherlock let her fall to the floor as he went to Claudia, loosening the ties on her hands.

"You're alright," he said gently, turning back around to glance at the unconscious woman on the floor.

"How did you know she'd be here?" Claudia gasped.

"I didn't know, I deduced." Sherlock said. "Her world is crashing down. She would rather die than be locked in a prison cell for the rest of her life, unable to continue nursing people."

At that moment, Sherlock heard the sirens outside. The cars' breaks were loud as they screeched to a halt and footsteps echoed around the empty corridors.

"We're in here, Lestrade!" Sherlock called, standing up. Lestrade appeared in the doorway, glancing at Jenn and then at Sherlock and Claudia.

"Is she …" his voice trailed off.

"No, she's fine. Some smelling salts and she'll be ready for questioning."

"Her elbow is bent backwards, Sherlock. She'll need medical treatment before you can talk to her."

Sherlock stepped up to Lestrade so their noses were inches apart.

"John is dying," he said in a low voice. "Right now, a machine is breathing for him. That woman is the only way to save him. She can be looked at after I talk to her."

Greg took a step back.

"Fair enough."

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock and Lestrade were sitting opposite Jenn, who was pale and sweating.

"I should be in hospital right now," she said, glaring at Lestrade. "And he should be under arrest for assault."

"You could visit John," Sherlock said. "He was asking about you."

"And how is Doctor Watson?" Jenn snarled. "I imagine he's almost dead by now."

"No," Sherlock answered. "He's fine, feeling much better. The fever broke a few hours ago, I believe, and the doctors are saying he can come home in a few days' time."

Jenn's face fell.

"That's impossible," she said. "He'll die without the antidote."

"Your engineered strain of flu." Sherlock said. "Yes, clever, really. How did you do it? You have a chemical engineering background but that's hardly adequate to manipulate genes."

"Why would I tell you?"

"Do you have a friend somewhere you rang up for a favour?"

Jenn bit her lip.

"It won't take us long to find them," Sherlock said. "It'd help your case, though, if you just told us."

Jenn remained quiet.

"I'm quite interested to see how you altered the influenza virus to make it bacterial," Sherlock said. "It is a bacterial strain, right? Otherwise you'd risk catching it and I'd probably be in hospital myself by now if it weren't."

Jenn still didn't say anything but Sherlock knew it was a matter of time.

"And the antidote," he continued. "Whoever you hired to make it for you must be quite intelligent. Not only altering the influenza virus into a bacterial form but making an antidote to combat it … it's quite impressive, really."

"Well, I'm sorry you won't get the chance to see it."

"And why's that? Surely you don't just have one vial of influenza and one vial of antidote."

Only he knew she would. She wouldn't risk having more than one and the chemical process to make it and the altered strain of influenza would be memorized in someone's brain, never written down.

"I did," she said. "But I've gotten rid of it."

"No, you haven't," Sherlock said. "That antidote is the one thing that meant you could keep up your act. Get the men you bring home sick, nurse them a few days, and then make them well. It's the only thing that made you a good nurse … the only way you could make sure they got better was by giving them that antidote to the flu you induced. You wouldn't have gotten rid of it because you know we'll never find out how it was made. The steps were never written down, only memorized, and this is your last supply. It would make sense to get rid of it, flush it down the toilet, but no, you wouldn't do that. This was your life. It was how you could be a nurse. The minute I took John to hospital, you knew that was all in jeopardy, that's why you were going to kill yourself. You wouldn't get rid of the key to all of your success."

Sherlock, by this point, was leaning over the table so he was right in her face. A small smile appeared on Jenn's lips.

"You lied," she said. "John is dying, right now, and he needs that antidote. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Holmes, but you will never find it."

She settled back in her chair, looking pleased with herself.

Sherlock glared at her before leaving the room. Lestrade joined him outside.

"Let me see her handbag," Sherlock said. "She'd keep the antidote on her at all times."

Lestrade wordlessly went to the evidence locker and retrieved her personal belongings. Sherlock dumped them out on the desk. Purse – a few pieces of ID and some cash – and lipstick, mobile, iPod, earphones.

"This?" Lestrade held up a travel bottle of paracetamol.

"No, too obvious," Sherlock said. Instead, he held up an inhaler.

"Here."

"How do you know?" Lestrade asked, tilting his head to read the label on the inhaler. "It has her medical information on it."

"She doesn't have asthma," Sherlock called, putting it in his coat and heading for the door. "The label is a fake. The antidote is what's inside and it's how the drug is administered."

Sherlock left New Scotland Yard and got a cab to the hospital, checking his watch and hoping he wasn't too late.

**In my mind, far from my best work but it's a chapter … reviews always welcome, thanks! **


	9. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hi everyone! Hope you're all managing to stay cool if you're in the middle of a heat wave like I am. So sorry about the delays … for those who don't know, I'm currently working as an au pair for a very active eight year old boy. Needless to say, I've been very tired as of late and finding time when I'm not exhausted to write a chapter has been trying. I suppose there is a bright side to this, as I'm going to do something I've never done before: post two chapters at once. I decided since I had the time, energy, and inspiration, I was just going to keep at it! I hope you enjoy this final chapter and the epilogue and thanks, as always, for reading. **

Sherlock, upon finding the taxi stuck in what was supposed to be a road but resembled a parking lot, thrust twenty quid at the driver and got out, running down the sidewalk towards the hospital. The inhaler was clasped tightly in his hand.

By the time he reached the ICU, John's newest home, Sherlock was sweating and out of breath.

"I have," he breathed heavily. "The antidote."

The nurse at the entrance to the four-bedded room glanced at him, obviously unaware of the situation.

"Excuse me?" she said. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock glared at her, getting his breath back a bit.

"Doctor John Watson," he said. "He's ill with an unknown strain of influenza. I have an antidote."

Sherlock held up the inhaler but the nurse still looked confused.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Is there someone you would like me to call or maybe - "

"Oh, forget it!" Sherlock exclaimed, pushing past her.

"Excuse me, Sir, you're not allowed - "

"Don't care!" Sherlock said, rushing over to John's bed. He threw back the curtain, hating the view of his blogger motionless and relying on a machine to breathe for him.

"It's alright, John," he said, uncapping the inhaler. He was aware that the on-duty nurse was currently calling security.

"I don't have much time," Sherlock continued, disconnecting the breathing tube and pulling the tube from John's throat. "But you had better do your part and not die while I do this. I am not going to jail for attempting to save your life."

Alarms sounded and monitors began flashing but Sherlock calmly lifted John's head off the pillow, put the inhaler to his lips, and pressed down, releasing the medication. He gently laid John's head back, pocketed the inhaler, and ran out of the room before the two burly security guards who were on their way could detain him.

* * *

The next couple of hours were murderous for Sherlock. He knew he couldn't go back up to John's room while the nurse was still on duty. She was working a twelve hour shift and wouldn't be off until seven o'clock, which meant Sherlock had time to kill.

He sweet-talked Molly Hooper into sitting by John's bedside – the breathing tube had hastily been reconnected with no apparent signs of permanent damage – and texting him updates. The young pathologist had been more than thrilled to do as he wished, although she was sad that John was in such a critical state.

While waiting for Molly's quarter-hourly reports (complete with vitals), Sherlock tried to occupy himself in the lab and morgue but he couldn't focus. Yes, he had solved the case and Jenn would be going to prison for a very long time. Yes, he had found the antidote … but he didn't know if John was going to live. Sherlock knew that if John died because of this infection, he would shortly follow.

Sherlock was strange like that. Death did not bother him. He could see dead people all day and not feel a twinge of emotion. However, put a cold, grey John Watson on the table and Sherlock would slit his own wrists with the same scalpel that would perform John's post-mortem.

Sherlock couldn't live without his friend and he certainly couldn't live with knowing he was the one who killed him by bringing him to hospital.

While things were squared away with Mycroft in the case of Sherlock's untimely death, the detective did write out a suicide note on his phone, saving it as _Confession_.

_I, Sherlock Holmes, admit to killing Doctor John Hamish Watson. Rather than impinge the over-stretched legal system and avoid a court case that would assuredly clear me of the charge (that no one would likely believe existed to begin with), I have seen to it that justice is served. A life for a life. Farewell. _

It was simple and to the point. Mycroft would understand and that's all that really mattered.

* * *

Sherlock had long since put away his mobile with the suicide note and was starring blindly through a microscope.

"Sherlock?"

He jumped when Molly's hand came down on his shoulder and he glanced at her quickly.

"What? Can't you see I'm working?"

Molly smiled sadly. She knew Sherlock wasn't working, she'd been watching him for the last fifteen minutes and he hadn't moved.

"Shift change has passed," was Molly's reply and Sherlock looked at his watch. It was now quarter past seven.

"Good."

He stood, pulling on his suit jacket.

"I brought you something to eat," Molly said, holding up a pre-packaged sandwich and a cup of coffee from Costa.

"Not hungry," Sherlock said, taking the coffee as he strode past. He left Molly standing in the lab without uttering a semblance of a thank you.

* * *

Sherlock had finished the coffee by the time he made it to the ICU. A new, brunette nurse was sitting at the small desk at the entrance to the room and she glanced up when she saw Sherlock. He said nothing to her, though she tried to ask him his name and if he was immediate family as visiting hours were over. Instead, he just jerked the curtain around John's bed closed behind him and pulled up the same seat Molly had occupied for the past couple of hours.

John was still on a ventilator. He didn't look much better, though his vitals were slightly improved. His body temperature had lowered and his blood pressure had risen, although Sherlock wasn't sure how much the ventilator impacted his blood pressure.

Sherlock never took his eyes off of John's face. There was nothing he could do to help his friend fight the infection, nothing he could do to make him more comfortable.

Hours passed and still Sherlock did not move.

It wasn't until dawn was breaking over the London skyline did something happen.

John's eyelids fluttered slightly and Sherlock perked up. Again, John's eyes attempted to open and Sherlock stood. Finally, they opened all the way and Sherlock saw his friend start to panic at the presence of the breathing tube.

"John, John, it's me." Sherlock said, leaning over so John could see his face. "You're on a ventilator, don't fight it."

John's eyes, while initially darting around rapidly in attempts to figure out his surroundings, settled on Sherlock and he calmed down. Sherlock smiled weakly at his friend.

"Are you," Sherlock cleared his throat, hating himself for how much emotion he had right now. "Are you alright, yeah?"

John nodded ever so slightly.

"Shall I find a doctor?"

Again, John nodded and Sherlock poked his head out of the cubicle, telling the nurse – luckily, it was a different day nurse – that John was awake. A few moments later, Dr. Williams arrived and after examining John, he removed the breathing tube.

"Your throat is going to be sore for a few days," he warned as he fixed the oxygen prongs in John's nose. John nodded, already feeling the negative impact of the tube. Sherlock couldn't care less about a sore throat.

"What's his prognosis?"

Dr. Williams smiled.

"I believe he's out of danger," he said. "There's still the recovery process but regaining consciousness was the turning point we had been hoping for."

"How long will I be in hospital?" John croaked. Sherlock gave him a disapproving glance.

"Don't talk." He turned back to Dr. Williams. "How long will he be in hospital?"

"We'll monitor him for a few hours," the doctor answered. "And if he continues improving, we'll move him out of ICU today. Again, depending on his improvement, he could go home in a few days' time."

Dr. Williams' pager went off just then and he glanced at it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I've got to run but I'll be back to check on you in a few hours, Doctor Watson."

With that, Dr. Williams left and Sherlock sank into the visitor's chair again.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked his friend.

"Ice chips." John whispered and Sherlock nodded, standing again. He asked the nurse where he could find some ice chips and after being directed to the main nurses' station, Sherlock returned with a paper cup full of ice.

"Here," Sherlock said, handing the cup to John. John gratefully put one of chips in his mouth, feeling the cold ice melt against his raw throat.

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked and John shook his head.

"I'm tired," he said, still whispering.

"Then go to sleep," Sherlock replied, taking the ice chips back from John. "I'll be here when you wake up."

John shook his head.

"Go home," he said, shifting in bed. "Get some sleep."

"I'm fine."

John didn't have the voice to argue and his eyes slipped closed.

**I hope you didn't think I was really going to kill John. I could never do such a thing. Reviews appreciated :) **


	10. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Any relevant information is the same as in Chapter Eight … enjoy! **

John had been moved from ICU the same day he had regained consciousness. Sherlock hadn't gone home except to shower and get some clean clothes, although he did accept Molly's sandwich the next time she offered. He fell asleep in the visitor's chair on more than one occasion and John was slightly worried about why Sherlock was acting this way.

After two painfully boring days in hospital, Sherlock finally called Mycroft and convinced his brother to pull a few strings and send John home a day early. John didn't complain when Dr. Williams told him he could finish his recovery at home. Sherlock had quickly packed the bag he had brought for John and slung it over his shoulder before pushing the wheelchair John was in to the hospital doors. He watched carefully as John got into the cab and again as he climbed up the stairs at Baker Street.

"It's good to be home," John said, falling onto the sofa. Sherlock set the overnight bag down and ran upstairs for John's pillow and blanket.

"Here," he said, handing them to John. "I'll make some tea."

* * *

After practically being spoon-fed soup by Sherlock later that evening, John convinced his friend he could shower by himself. It felt wonderful to shower in a real shower and wash away the hospital smell. He had felt like he was covered in sweat – hospital sponge baths could only do so much – but he felt clean and refreshed when he got out of the shower.

Sherlock saw him upstairs, asking if he needed anything. John sighed, said no, and fell asleep relatively easily.

* * *

Sherlock closed John's bedroom door and trudged downstairs. He was exhausted, having taken care of John around the clock since he woke up, but he couldn't sleep if he tried. He wouldn't sleep, not until John was completely recovered.

Sherlock washed up from supper and tidied the living room before sinking into his chair. He couldn't do an experiment and he couldn't lose himself in his mind palace. His thoughts wandered where they pleased until he heard John begin to cough.

In an instant, Sherlock was upstairs with a cup of water.

John, who sat up until the coughing fit passed, accepted the water and took a sip.

"Thanks," he wheezed, setting the cup down before falling back onto his pillow. Sherlock frowned, laying a hand on John's forehead.

"You're warm," he said. "Let me find the thermometer."

John merely sighed and obliged as Sherlock took his temperature.

"And?"

"Only thirty eight point two," Sherlock replied. "Low grade but nothing to be concerned about. Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine." John said. Sherlock nodded and turned to leave.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stopped and turned around again.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean what am I doing?"

"You've been at my beck and call for the past four days." John said. "I'm almost better and you're still trying to take care of me as though I'm dying."

"I'm just trying to be a good friend," Sherlock said, shifting uncomfortably. He had told John about how the case had ended, although he hadn't shared his thoughts on practically killing John by bringing him to hospital.

"Why?" John asked bluntly. "You never try to be a good friend."

Sherlock shifted again.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John pressed. "Just tell me, I promise you'll feel better. Something is bothering you."

Sherlock sighed and sat on the end of John's bed.

"It's the least I can do," he mumbled. "After practically killing you."

"What do you mean? You never tried to kill me."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes.

"Yes, I did," he said. "When I took you to hospital."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You tried to kill me by bringing me to a hospital? Come off it. You're brilliant; if you wanted to kill me, you'd have come up with something more original."

Sherlock didn't smile at the joke and John's eyebrows furrowed.

"Explain, then."

Sherlock sighed.

"When I found you in Jenn's flat," he said. "I took you to hospital. I took you _away_ from the one thing that could have prevented all of this. She was going to make you better, she always does. But no, I had to come in and drag you to hospital where you just got more and more ill because the doctors there couldn't treat you."

Finally, it made sense to John.

"You feel guilty."

Sherlock toyed with the edge of the blanket, not meeting John's eye as he nodded.

"Yes."

"You shouldn't."

Sherlock looked up sharply.

"Well, I do. If you died, I was going to commit suicide. I wrote a note and everything."

John raised an eyebrow involuntarily.

"But I didn't die," he said. "Don't forget that you may have taken me away from the antidote but you still went and found it afterwards."

Sherlock shrugged.

"That's my job."

"No," John said. "You never care about the victims, who they are or what family they left behind. If it was anyone else, you wouldn't have disconnected a ventilator in the ICU to give them medicine. _That_ was not being a consulting detective. _That_ was being a friend."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Come on," John said, throwing the blankets back. "I'll make some tea."

"No, you rest," Sherlock said immediately. "I'll make it."

"No," John insisted, standing. "I'm stiff and it will help to walk around a bit. Besides, I owe you for saving my life, remember? And while I don't think my life is worth only a cuppa, it's a start."

Sherlock finally cracked a small smile as he stood. He let John make him a cup of tea, leaning heavily against the sofa cushions. By the time John had finished his own tea, Sherlock was fast asleep. The doctor smiled and pulled the blanket around his friend's shoulder before going back to bed.

**And that is the end of **_**Obsession**_**. Thank you so much for reading and for such encouraging words in your reviews! **

**Happy reading and writing,**

**StoryLover18 **


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